Swati
Delicate hands, painted in henna
Cinnamon skin from the last celebration
Onyx silk strands frame her face in a bob:
the privilege of Indian youth
Father: physician, and mother: her conscience
Directing her thoughts like a regal conductor
Invisible strands to her instrument heart
wrapped up in the folds of her sari
Flat, pattered feet on the slick marbled floor
Curry paste heat on her tongue evermore
Caught up in culture shock, American soil
while her heart is still painted in henna...
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